Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “I.D please,” the good fellow seemed stressed by this new task. He looked intensely at my red and white plastic card then quickly gazed down at his trusty board, a list, looking for any possible connection. All at once his eyes grew large. He looked firmly at me. He knew who I was and he became uncomfortable. He had a duty to do and clearly he did not like it. He raised his head and looked deeply into the sky.

  “Go ahead, Ed. Next!” He let me slide and I was not sure what caused his discomfort. Heading for the employee bus I was still perplexed. The culture was in the process of a stern change.

  I entered the flight lounge under Terminal 5 at LAX. There was much discussion as small conclaves of crew-members gathered. The faces were familiar and much missed as I had only been a shadow around the lounge for such a long time. Caroline, a cheerful brunette with whom I had worked with in earlier years, was a bit shocked to see me and broke into a large smile.

  “Eddy, it's good to see you!” I was a bit surprised by her level of energy. “You got through,” she said with a sense of bewilderment. I stared back completely confused. “Don't you know?” I threw up my arms. She quickly put her hand on my shoulder and led me to a more secluded area near the mailboxes. “There is a list of people that are banned from the property.”

  “Yeah, so?” Caroline just stared.

  “Well, your name is on it.” I was stunned. That explained the behavior of the security guard. Caroline began to chuckle at the absurdity of the notion. Then I began to think of my last meeting with Carlton. Since I did not bend to their preferred conclusion of our issues, perhaps it was better to demonize that F/A little shit. I began to chuckle, too. I truly felt honored.

  “They consider me an antagonist.” The thought was entertaining.

  “I wondered if they will let me on the flight to Honolulu? The gate agents must have the list.” Once again Caroline and I began to laugh.

  Change can be a painful experience that I suppose incites fear. I assumed the nervous would begin to see threats in darkened corners. Maybe Carlton just wanted to be a big d### and teach me a lesson, make things difficult so I would relent, settle, and go away forever. Thinking back to my Minneapolis mistake I concluded it would be best to be silent concerning the list. Besides, I was headed for a serene island in the middle of the Pacific that now began to paint a portrait of a promising future.

  I stood by the gate, patiently waiting for my name to be called.

  “Valenciana-here's your seat.” I boarded the aircraft and was not totally relieved of stress until the vessel backed away from the gate. I smiled and settled back in my comfortable seat.

  “A-l-o-h-a.”

  Chapter XXII

  It was clear that the process to exorcising what pained me, the foulness that was in my subconscious, would be a lengthy one. Doctor Joe believed I could do it and finally now, so did I. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Sure, it was at a snail's pace but things seemed to be moving it the right direction. Still recognizing the danger of my past behavior I felt confident in exiling myself to the Garden Island.

  The splendor of Hanakapiai Falls soothed my soul. Days were filled with meditation and remedial reflection. For the first time I allowed the word “forgiveness” into my conscience. At the top of that long list of names for consideration for absolution was myself. My own actions could arguably be considered the most vile behavior of all.

  “It is your own anger and hatred that shackled God.” I recalled Rachel's words. The most insidious revulsion of feelings was reserved for me, which made the final chapter, still to be played out, all that more important.

  Some time later and being well rested, I boarded the flight HNL-LAX. At 35.000' I fantasized how some lawyer for the new airline might receive a call from David.

  “How in the hell did that flight attendant get that attorney?” When asked by his superiors to examine my particular case what would his recommendation be? “Settle the matter and move on.” That was a pleasing thought.

  I had a couple of days to gather myself before I met with Carlton. The hallways were now decorated with new signs and photos signifying the greater collective that was still evolving. The beloved posters of the white fuselage and red logo of a McDonnel Douglas DC-10 were gone. In their place were the blue, red and white images of the Lockheed L1011 jumbo jet, the preferred wide body of the new airline. To my amazement Carlton greeted me with a smile. I was surprised to see that Mr. Wilcox, Barry Lane's former assistant, had now assumed the desk in Carlton's office.

  “I'll leave you two alone,” Carlton said. He was wise to leave the office.

  “Whatever had occurred prior was a misunderstanding,” Wilcox explained. Here was a face from the deceased airline. “Certainly we both can resolve our differences in a logical manner. We can settle this matter today if you wish, Eduardo.” The smiling gentleman wrote a monetary amount on a white piece of paper and coolly slid it across the polished desk into my hands. Surprisingly, the offer was fair. I kept my poker face.

  “It's good to have a starting point, sir.”

  I had no great demands upon the inheritors of my contract nor was there any desire to lash out at them. “I want no more than an earned sense of respect, a clean slate, the right amount on a check and I will walk away forever, Mr. Wilcox.”

  “We want no less, Ed.” It was easier for them to open the purse strings than to deal with the itch of this pestering mosquito. We rose,

  “I will seriously consider your offer, Mr. Wilcox, and get back to you.” We shook hands as I headed for the door. Suddenly, I stopped, turned and popped a sly little smile.

  “By the way, what about my flight benefits?” My inquiry caught Wilcox off guard. He raised his hand to his chin and thought for a moment. I became impatient.

  “I want them.” The representative's eyes grew big. We had a problem.

  I left the airport facility and soon received a call informing me that any travel benefits would be terminated by our agreement. The new company had a long set rule of never bestowing benefits to survivors of any airline incident.

  “Sorry to hear that. It looks like we are back to square one.” I felt so empowered when I was able to say those words to my superiors. It once again became a waiting game. I was having a good time. I felt tranquil and reinvigorated. I was back at school, back at the gym, in the ocean and eating healthy once more. I resumed my activities with the college crew team.

  “Hit them up for big money.” There was always an abundance of supposed wise guys who believed they knew better, if only they had been the survivor. In their boastful expressions they would walk away with the money, the beautiful girl and many benefits thrown in because they are wonderful. The elegance and intelligence I witnessed in the character of Barry Lane and Josef Ramljack did not go unnoticed. I was discovering that the true riches to be found was in simplicity for there was still a mental journey awaiting me once business was concluded.

  “Take what's rightfully due and walk away with grace,” I said to myself. I could imagine both my mentors telling me to walk away and leave the trash behind. I could wait. I was getting a paycheck and still had my benefits. I turned my attention to the prospect of going public, telling the truth.

  I gathered, sorted and reviewed every piece of information with regard to 2605. I tactfully informed contacts I had encountered over the years that I was now ready to speak. Some were journalists, aviation enthusiasts, aviators of all forms of aircraft and those who were just curious.

  With my past behavior I feared I could come away looking like a jerk, yet I had to step out and take a chance.

  “Tell me about the crash in three sentences.” A new phrase entered my vocabulary as interested individuals in different media wanted information. Along with my studies at Loyola-Marymount I now undertook learning the business of the media. The fact that the official report was such a sham and never released publicly opened up the eyes of the inquisitive.

  The 400 plus days of the Iranian hostage coverage see
med to have completely buried the memory of the crash.

  “He has the CVR Recording?”

  “A flight attendant?”

  “Why have I never heard of this crash?” No matter how hard the initial speculators dug they could not find a thing published on the incident. The NTSB, the FAA, the manufacturer of the aircraft all came up empty for specifics. All these institutions could acknowledge was that the accident had indeed taken place.

  “The flight attendant?” I understood their hesitancy. It was going to take work and patience to find an appropriate organization to align myself with.

  On a lovely sunny day I received a call from New York. A guy in Sherman Oaks, CA knew a lady in Manhattan and someone called someone who spoke to another highly placed lady at the American Broadcasting Company. The Executive Producer of the News Magazine 20/20 was intrigued with the tale she had been told.

  “Can you possibly send me an overnight package detailing your involvement in this incident?” an executive secretary politely asked. “Send it FedEx.” Information was exchanged and I assured her that I would comply.

  “How is this going to happen? This could be very beneficial or very destructive.” I contemplated the possibilities and it unnerved me.

  “You still have other unfinished business to deal with in the airline, so focus.” I let the fear go and regained my confidence. I also realized that the vile voices in my mind had been struck silent.

  “We are very interested in this story.” A phone call from across the country opened a door that revealed an abundance of light. ABC was sending a senior producer immediately to Los Angeles to meet with me.

  “I would like to thank the American Broadcasting Company for agreeing to fly with me. Please make sure your seat belt is tightly fastened and that the tray table in front of you is in the up and locked position.” I would only get one shot at this. I needed a plan.

  Within 48 hours I was pulling up to the entrance of the Sheraton Isabella at LAX. All I had was a name, Kurt Lappert. I asked a lady behind the front desk if she could please let Mr.Lappert know I had arrived. I sat in the bustling lobby scrutinizing the various businessmen. I made a game of trying to see if I could spot the senior producer upon his entrance into the lobby. As I turned my head I glimpsed a tall middle-aged gentleman in a black suit.

  “Eduardo?” He got my name right. I was pleased. The man from New York recognized me from the brown leather flight jacket I said I would be wearing. His grip was strong and firm as we shook hands.

  “So, how are you? How's your family?” Kurt's first reaction implied feeling a bit awkward not knowing how to begin our conversation.

  “We are going to dinner, mi amigo.” I took the initiative. “First we eat and drink then we can talk business.”

  “Sounds good,” Kurt said in surprise. I was sure he assumed we would patronize one of the well established eateries in the area. I had other plans. I intended to see what Kurt Lappert was made of.

  “Ever been to East L.A?” I asked the man from the city that never sleeps. I raced, screeching out of the hotel's driveway and soon we were headed northward on the 405 freeway.

  “Do you still correspond with Skip?” The question threw me for a momentary loop. The reality was that Skip and I had drifted apart. I remained silent. “It was not a full flight that night, right?” This guy did his homework, I thought. I was impressed. I certainly did not mind conversing with someone who was well prepared but first I wanted to know more about his character. Was he someone I could trust? The well respected news magazine he represented reached millions of households each and every week. They had the means to revisit specifics of the accident and conduct a thorough investigation. Such high quality news journalism could get to the truth. But I had my misgivings. I was not a Kennedy or a Rockefeller. I was just some guy from East Los Angeles who got caught up in an awful mess.

  “Can I hear the tape?” Kurt's anxiety grew.

  “Patience my friend, first things first. I would like to see photos of your children. You have children, yes?” Kurt looked at me perplexed. Exiting the freeway we entered a unique enclave of the city of the angels filled with history, tradition, celebration and if you're not careful, danger. Kurt Lappert was out of his element. He gazed with curiosity at old fluorescent lights and worn buildings: nighttime in the barrio. There was a crowd of campesinos standing on a corner by a local market.

  “Day laborers celebrating,” I stated. My fair-skinned friend nodded. The gringo lowered his window to take in the mariachi music which rang loud and clear from a bar whose colorful name read La Copa de Ora, (The Golden Cup). “You want to go in there for a drink?” I joked. His eyes grew large. We viewed the half drunken hooligans who lingered on the sidewalk. Their faces and manners seemed filled with anger and hatred. It struck me instantly that not long ago I had sought out such places and mingled my anger amidst similar lost souls.

  Manuel's El Tepeyac Restaurant in the old neighborhood would provide the perfect setting to begin any conversation concerning 2605.

  “It all begins here, Kurt,” I explained. “I was born not far from here, went to grammar school down the street. To understand me you have to see and experience where I came from.”

  “Joven, quieres tequila?” The proprietor, Manuel Rojas, offered. Just hours after landing at LAX the senior producer from ABC was downing shots with the best of the barrio. My guest seemed more relaxed. A sad Spanish song of lost love serenaded from the jukebox and there were the familiar pictures on the wall of Our Lady of Guadalupe alongside one of President Kennedy. Securing a table I noticed Kurt was taking in the scene in the small dining area. He liked what he saw.

  “The children?” I inquired. My honored guest did not understand. “The children. I was serious about wanting to see photos.” The man from Manhattan quickly removed his wallet and laid it out upon the table. Amidst lively conversation and festive music I began to develop a broader picture of who Kurt Lappert was. With the arrival of his large hot plate of chile rellenos, a Manuel's specialty, the Senior Producer dismissed any thought of engaging in specifics of a plane crash. Kurt savored the flavor of the melted cheeses as it strung from his chin to his fork.

  Suddenly, angry words were being exchanged by two patrons. One sentence concluded with the usual Spanish vulgarity. Then it was on. Tables went flying as the two young bucks in rival dress and colors collided. Everyone gasped and retreated in fear. A split second before the pandemonium reached our table, Kurt snatched up his oval plate and backed away, guarding his culinary booty at all cost.

  “##### su madre.” The combatants crashed to the floor drenched in a mixture of red chile sauce, soft drinks and broken plates. All at once the small figure of Manuel, the proprietor, leaped into the struggle. He was going to teach these young “chavalitos” a lesson. I turned back and viewed the Senior Producer casually watching the mayhem while stuffing his mouth with the appreciated contents of his plate. Anger and fear dominated the room, yet, Kurt Lappert was enjoying himself.

  “Wow! This kind of reminds me of Beirut,” Kurt reminisced, eyes wide open in excitement. I would come to find that in his various posts with the network, Beirut was remembered lovingly. I liked this guy. It became obvious. I wasn't getting out of the mental minefield without the help of others. Barry Lane and Joe Ramljak were mentors who kept me going. Was Kurt Lappert a man of such quality? And was he here to help me or hurt me?

  I maneuvered a cart loaded with my suitcase and boxes into the room at the Sheraton Isabella.

  “I need to get this done, Kurt.” I turned to face the taller man. “I can't afford for this to turn on me.” Kurt thought for a second.

  “All this time you have been told to keep quiet concerning this issue, right?” I nodded. “Then, let's start by you telling me what happened to Flight 2605.” So I began.

  As an employee of the industry, one becomes a number. Eduardo Valenciana was designated as associate 21196-1. Numbers determine everything related to one’s job in t
he industry. Flight 2605 was the result of a designated sequence #190 in the Flight Attendant Bid Sheet for the month of October, 1979. The all-important human face of the airline was too often suppressed by the company, or in some cases, the cockpit crews. Some of the most respected individuals I was acquainted with were airline pilots, men of high quality and strong character. Yet some of the most disgusting words and actions I had been witness to had also come from airline pilots. Over the years the industry had been conducting business concerning cockpit crews through a “good old boy” network. I believe this process hindered the actions of the men in the cockpit that Halloween morning.

  Carl Herbert was a marine. He was not one who was handed an airplane by the government. He fought for his nation on land. Whether one liked Carl or not, he was one hell of a pilot and one could not have put himself in safer hands. Dieter Reimann had earned his wings in the post-war era of the German Luftwaffe. Certainly nothing came easy for a boy of ten during the last days of the Third Reich. He had come exceedingly far.

  With ten years in the company, Sam Wells was the rookie, by seniority standards. There was no doubt in his mind that the prize of securing a place in the left seat, would one day be his. Three distinctly different men who were all good pilots. Yet, the facts leading up to October 31 would reveal that they were far from their best on that particular flight.

  The last resort by anyone towards a fellow employee is to do a “write-up.” Herbert did just that days prior to the scheduled flight. The First Officer he shared the cockpit with had gotten under his skin. This allowed trivial feelings of disdain to ride jumpseat that fateful morning. The airline industry would argue that there are effective methods for dealing with tension in the cockpit. The reality is that the systems in place at the time resulted in a Check Pilot “jawing” with the combatants individually, one good old boy talking to another.